The Tears of a Beast
by XxfictionalbookcharacterxX
Summary: Relda's funeral, but Canis can't seem to let her-or his guilt-go. Rated T just to be safe. Reviews would be just grand.


**This one is also a bit old; it is from 7/5/11. So between 7/5/11 (this fic) and 7/8/11 ("Destruction of a City"), I guess I was in a writing fan fiction mood. Like "Destruction of a City," I didn't write this fic for a certain character, I just had that character in mind (like Shen and Soothsayer in that fic, and now Canis and Relda in this one). So if you come across anything that isn't like it was in the book, you at least know why. Okay, fanfic time now~~**

The Tears of a Beast

He would never see her again.

Her smile, her face, the accepting look in her eyes when she saw him.

He would never hear her laugh again, or feel her rubbing the calming circles on his back like she used to, or hear her say, "I'm sure it will be okay," or even, "You are not a monster to me."

She would never be able to hear him say how much he missed her now that she was gone.

In fact, she'd never even _be_ again.

Because now, she was dead.

He opens his hand, and a raindrop splatters down on his palm. The rain streaks down his wrinkled face, hiding his tears. For this, he doesn't know whether to be thankful or bitter. To him it was evidence of feeling.

He is at her burial now. The skies are as grey as his eyes and dark as his heart. Clouds block any possible view of the sun and rain washes away all joy. Seeing no point of keeping his head up, he averts his eyes back to the scene before him.

Today he doesn't bother to hide from the crowd. He is standing as close as he can get to the coffin, as if willing her to come back to life, to be there for him like he was for her. He is in front of all the mourners, and they certainly don't agree with that. But he doesn't care.

"Wasn't that man her dearest friend?"

"Yes, he was, until he killed her."

"Do you really think it was him?"

"Of course it was; no one else had the opportunity. That kind of behavior is in his past."

A young girl asked, "But is it really fair to accuse someone just because of their history?"

"History makes a person. You will learn soon enough."

If history made a person, he was Satan himself.

He knew they didn't like him, never had and never would. Because of his history. Some people knew it, some people heard of it, some heard the rumors, and very few saw him as just an old man with no one to love him.

No one but her.

But not anymore.

She was gone, and gone for good.

Somewhere up there, he knew she was in Heaven, clothed in white, warm in the love of God. He felt there was no way he could be redeemed in His eyes, no way he would ever be reunited in the afterlife with her. She had always told him otherwise, that he wasn't evil, wasn't a monster. Now she wasn't here to tell him these things, and he was beginning to lose faith in God, in himself, that he could ever be forgiven. But he had to have faith, have hope. If he didn't, he'd have nothing to live for. If he didn't, he'd spend _his_ afterlife in Hell, eternally separated from God and her.

He ignores the hisses of gossipy women behind him:

"There must be a God, because you're the Devil."

"Only the flames of Hell can warm your cold soul."

He closes his eyes, as if to block them out. But somewhere in his head, he believes them to be right.

Most people, he thinks, may not even remember (or know) why they hate him. Why they all hate him.

A woman, one of the few who believes him to be harmless, makes her way to him.

"I am sorry for your loss," she whispers.

"As am I," he replies.

She pays with her own tears, and looks at him, _really_ looks at him, for a moment. What if the rumors are true? Is he really harboring a monster inside of him? Or is _he_ the monster? She could hardly imagine such of him; all he seems to be is a lanky old man with graying hair and a dark-colored suit a few sizes too big. He looks a bit like a sad dog now, his eyes low and downcast and the color of the dull moon in outer space.

She catches these eyes, and holds their gaze for a few moments. She is surprised to see that the eyes she thought were grey are a brilliant bright blue, the same color as a wolf's eyes are when it is born. They both turn away, uncomfortably, nervously. She backs up, and notices his eyes are grey. _Of course_, she thinks, _they always were_. She murmurs her apologies and returns to the rest of the mourners.

_Can't lose control_, he thinks, because he knows what will happen if he does. He cant afford to let it out, not again. Because the last time he did…

…he killed her.

Yes, the rumors were true, probably each and every one. He wasn't a werewolf, exactly, the wolf was in him and he could become it. She always used to tell him that he and the wolf were two separate people sharing the same body; that he was not the wolf, that what the wolf had done was not his doing, his fault. Now she wasn't here to tell him this, now he couldn't believe it. The wolf is inside of him, a part of him, he is the wolf and the wolf is him. It has been like this since he could remember anything at all, and no one's forgotten all the things the Wolf—he—has done. It's his fault that she's dead. He killed her.

And now she is gone.

"How did she die?" a young boy—too curious for his own good, he thinks—asks.

"The wolf killed her."

"_The_ wolf?"

"The same one."

"Don't they say the wolf lives in a man?"

"Yes."

"And eats people?"

"Yes."

"Who _is_ that man?"

His father doesn't answer, and the boy follows his gaze. The son silently understands what his father means.

"An iron hunger like that is never satiated."

Though he hates to admit it, what the man says is true. The Wolf's desire to kill is never sated, never satisfied, and when he's let out, he's out for blood. He and the wolf are one in the same, and the will always stay the same, will never change. The Wolf was always like a heavy burden on his chest, but now, with her gone, the Wolf was the closest thing to a companion he had.

"You killed her," he whispers, knowing he will hear him.

The Wolf is quick with a reply. "No, _we_ killed her. _You_ killed her."

"That's a lie!" he snarls under his breath. He fights an inner battle with himself, a lonely warrior fighting a lonely war. A losing battle.

He looks around him, at the people who accused him of murder. They all see him too, and recognize him as a monster, see him as the beast they believe and know him to be. _But they have all done wrong_, he thinks. He surely is not the only sinner, but is he the worst? They don't know the pain of losing someone you killed yourself.

There is one last chance to see the body. To see her again.

He steps up to the casket.

Seeing her like this, trapped in eternal rest, kills him now. She was so vibrant and full of life. She is still beautiful, even in death. But on this earth, in this life, she is dead. She will always be dead here and nothing he could ever do could fix it, change it. After all, it is his fault she is this way.

"I'm so sorry!" he cries, softly. "I never meant for this to happen, for it to come out….I'm sorry."

He steps back, trying to regain his composure.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

Then she is lowered into her grave, where her earthly body will sleep forever until the end of time, never to resurface. Six feet under.

And her cries, real tears that cannot be hidden by any amount of rain.

The pastor speaks no more.

She is gone, along with any problems she had in this life.

_Time to let go._

He cries, shedding the tears of a beast.

**I love Mr. Canis. This fic is the first I wrote for him, so I hope it does him justice.**

**And I really, really, hope you will read and review. :)**


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